Angels and Mysteries
by Jabberswife
Summary: Unexplained disappearances at the Wester Drumilns Estate begin again, and send Lestrade to Sherlock for help.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes or Doctor Who. Everything here belongs to someone else.

Note: I am American, so if I get something wrong, that'll be why. Also, I rewrote this chapter after re-watching Blink. I realized I had the angels in the wrong spot!

Chapter 1.

"Really, Lestrade," Sherlock groused. "I can't believe you've bothered to come all this way for this. A missing person's case is hardly worth my effort."

Lestrade refrained from rolling his eyes. "I think you'll find this one to be bizarre enough to hold even your attention. Have you ever heard of the Wester Drumlins Estate?"

"If I had it must not have been interesting enough to remember"

John didn't bother refraining from rolling his eyes. "Why don't you just fill us in, Lestrade," he said.

"Well, long story short, it's an old abandoned home on the west side. There's been disappearances associated with that house going back several years. Really odd disappearances, people go in and they never come out."

"A ghost story? Please…" Sherlock sniffed.

"Not ghosts, Sherlock, and not just stories. We have a garage full of abandoned vehicles; cars people drove up to that house and never came back to. Some were found with their motors still running. And then there was Detective Inspector Billy Shipton. He was put in charge of the investigation of the disappearances, until he went missing as well. Reports on his disappearance stated the desk sergeant called him because a woman had come in to report another missing person, Shipton clocked out and it's believed he left with her. He was never seen again. That was over two years ago. There was a full investigation of course, but not a trace was ever found, just like all the others."

"If the investigation didn't turn up anything back then, why are you looking into it again now?" asked John.

"Because the disappearances stopped after that." said Lestrade. "The Wester Drumlins cases just went cold, but they've started up again. Over the years the place got quite a reputation as you can imagine, and developers bought the place, planning on making it into kind of a "theme hotel". There was talk of having some kind of ghost-hunter program filmed there. They started the renovations about six months ago and within a few weeks, workmen started dissapearing, five of them total. Eventually, all the contractors quit and renovations ground to a halt. The last people to go missing were a couple of kids, sixteen years old, on a dare to spend the night in the "haunted house". That was two weeks ago. Their friends never saw them again." Lestrade paused, shaking his head. "And something else, not sure it's important, but some rather strange evidence has gone missing. You see, after Shipton went missing, everywhere they could think of was searched, including the storage garage of course, but didn't turn up anything, except it was discovered that one of pieces of abandoned property, a replica of a 1930's style police call box that had been there was gone. There was no indication of how it ever got to Wester Drumlins in the first place and no one's seen it since. We're at the end of our rope on this one Sherlock. There's been over 20 people since 2005 gone missing, a lull from 2007 to now, and now seven people in the last 6 months. We have got to put a stop to this!"

"So, you have missing evidence and missing people with no clues at all." Sherlock sat, eyes closed and fingers stapled beneath his chin. "This does have the possibility of being an interesting case after all."


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, it certainly _looks_ like a haunted house." John said, staring up at the imposing estate. The old, empty house, with its overgrown trees and gardens casting shadows in the late-afternoon light, was decidedly spooky.

"Spare me the usual idiotic ramblings, John. You know as well as I do that there is a reasonable explanation for these disappearances and prattling on about the impossible won't be a bit of help to anyone." Sherlock's eyes scanned the building and grounds, taking in everything yet, irritatingly finding no obvious clues. It was maddening.

The day started with Lestrade taking Sherlock and John to the storage facility. Of course, most of the missing persons had been gone long enough that very little helpful could be deduced. Sherlock had, of course, learned plenty that wasn't helpful to the case. From the automobiles and their contents, he quickly deduced that eight of the missing person's were married, three cheating on their spouses, one openly gay and one decidedly in the closet. One was ginger, five naturally blond, two bottle-blond. Six of them had dogs, two had cats and one had a pet cockatoo. Their ages, races, sexes, occupations and incomes varied. Unless they disappeared together, like the workmen, not one had anything in common with the others and there was absolutely no indication of what had happened to them. Although Sherlock's deductions were, as usual, fascinating to John and Lastrade, they were also, ultimately, unimportant to the case. It was unbearably frustrating to Sherlock and he wasn't above taking that frustration out on the nearest convenient person; berating Lestrade for the idiocy of the police, the contamination of the evidence (which, after all, was to be expected after so many years) and the uselessness of the trip to the facility in general. Eventually, even the patience of the DI wore out and he went to collect copies of the case files to be delivered to 221B Baker street, sending John and Sherlock alone to the Wester Drumlin's estate, with a stern warning to John to not let Sherlock go wandering about alone.

Stepping through the police barricades, they entered the grounds. Despite Sherlock's foul-tempered remark and his own common sense, John couldn't suppress a shiver. Just inside the gates, it felt as though the two had left London entirely. It seemed quieter, darker and simply _wrong_. It wasn't a feeling John could put a name to, but his soldier's senses went on high alert.

"Do you feel that?" John asked quietly, expecting a snide reply. He was surprised.

"Yes." Sherlock said simply. He had gone quieter and more still than usual, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Determinedly, he began walking up the drive to the house. John gave himself a stern mental shake and followed close behind Sherlock, vaguely wishing he'd brought his pistol, although there appeared to be no actual danger outside of his imagination.

There were obvious signs of the construction that had started six months prior. The roof had been repaired and there were areas where masonry repairs had begun. New stones for the walks and walls sat in piles, along with sand for concrete and mortar, covered with tarps, even some tools remained, abandoned by the workers. Peeling paint had been sanded off and the bare woodwork had been repainted in places, although in other spots the primer still showed. The windows had been reglazed, the broken panes replaced. No work appeared to have been done on the grounds and the landscaping was in need of care. Still, it was easy to see how impressive the gardens would be if restored to their former glory. As they approached the front entrance, something caught John's attention.

"Wow! Sherlock, look at this." John could not see what had caused the movement he had seen from the corner of his eye, but he walked deeper into the front lawn to the stone bench and statue at the edge of the house. "This is really impressive!" he said. The statue of a life-sized angel, her hands covering her face as if she were weeping, stood in the shadow of the house. John walked around it, looking closely at it. "Look at this detail, Sherlock. Do you think it's part of the remodel? It isn't weathered like the house."

Sherlock looked over at the statue, agreeing that the condition seemed a bit too good to be original to the estate, with no broken fingers or other bits. It was a lovely statue, very detailed. John ran his hand up statue's arms to the cupped hands, peering between the fingers and head. The artist had even gone to the trouble of somehow carving facial features which were visible beneath the statues hands, instead of simply carving the hands attached to the head, covering the face.

"Come on, John, we're losing the light. It's a big house with no power. We need to be in and out before it gets too dark to see properly. We can come back to see the grounds tomorrow if need be. There may well be clues to be found outside, but I hardly think a statue is important." Sherlock said, looking back at John and the angel from the stairs to the entrance. John nodded and, with a last pat on the angel's folded wings, joined him.

Inside the house, the restoration begun by the workmen, before they had abandoned their jobs, was even more apparent. Still, despite the stripped wallpaper, repaired plasters and new woodwork, the atmosphere within was gloomy and, as Sherlock predicted, the electricity did not work, filling the house with shadows even with the sunlight coming through the bare windows. This wasn't helped by the fact it was obviously abandoned, the unfinished work showing the workmen had simply dropped their brushes and trowels and walked out. They decided to search the house room by room, beginning in the musty cellar. John adamantly refused to split up to search, much to Sherlock's annoyance. "Yes, Sherlock," he said sarcastically, "by all means, let's split up in a house where people go missing all the time. Lestrade would kill me if you disappeared."

Very little light was available through the small, dirty, cellar windows but luckily John's phone had a flashlight app, giving them extra visibility. "What do you see, John?" asked Sherlock. John looked the room over, hating the question, which Sherlock loved to ask. "It doesn't look like they've done anything down here." he replied. "Obviously," said Sherlock, "they've not started renovating, but it's clear the workmen were here. Things have been moved. Just look at the floor." John could barely see in the flashlights beam, drag and scuff marks. "They moved several large, heavy objects." said Sherlock. He snatched the phone from John's hand and moved to the center of the room, walking about, looking at the marks. "From the areas where the dust hasn't collected you can see there were four, in a circle, or square. Irregularly shaped, they appear to be the same size as the base of the statue in the garden. Which could explain its preservation, but why anyone keep it down here? Were there four of them? What did they do with them?" Sherlock muttered to himself, looking around. "They were moved against that wall, but there's no sign of how they got them out of the cellar. They just aren't there now. Curious."

Curiosity notwithstanding, the rapidly fading light made any further searching of the cellar nearly futile, so Sherlock and John headed back up to the main level of the house, where larger windows made searching possible. Very little was to be seen, however. A large front room held the sleeping bags abandoned by the two teenagers that went missing most recently, still rolled up, untouched, and a six-pack of lager, unopened. "So, the teenagers decided to stay in here for the night, but never settled in. Clearly whoever took them surprised them." said Sherlock.

"Perhaps they went exploring first?" suggested John.

"And left their torches? I doubt that." said Sherlock, pointing to them, lying near the sleeping bags. The only other thing of note on the main floor was graffiti. Specifically, in black pain across a rather hideous green wall, were the words, _"Beware the weeping angel. Oh, and duck. No, really duck! Sally Sparrow. DUCK, NOW! Love from The Doctor (1969)_"

"This graffiti is old." said Sherlock, "Judging from the type of paint and amount of cracking and fading it's easily from 1969. You can see where the wallpaper covered it for years. '_THE Doctor.' _Why THE Doctor? Doctor Who? And who is Sally Sparrow? And why should she duck?"

"That's what catches your attention?" said John. "What about '_Beware'_? A normal person is usually more concerned with the warning!"

"Beware the weeping angel? It clearly refers to the statue." Sherlock looked out the window where the statue John had spotted earlier still stood. "There appears to be no reason to beware of a statue and no way to find out what it could mean without finding the people involved. Not that it matters to this case. There weren't any disappearances in 1969. A spooky message in a big old house isn't unusual, but the rest of the message is quite unusual. How would someone know when someone else should duck? Unless they were planning on doing something themselves to make the person need to duck…but if you were doing that, why would you warn them?" Sherlock relegated this puzzle to the back of his mind, as it seemed to have nothing to do with the case at hand and the two moved on.

They continued their search of the house and headed upstairs, moving quickly as possible while looking for any clues. Opening a door into a large bedroom, John jumped back, nearly knocking Sherlock over. "Bloody Hell!" he exclaimed! There before them was another life-sized statue of an angel. Ignoring Sherlock's smirk at his being startled by the statue, John moved on into the room. This statue was different though just as detailed. Not weeping, this Angel stood half turned, with one arm raised to shield the angel's face, as though she were trying to avoid seeing something. "Guess we found another one. But, what the devil is this doing here?" he asked.

"A better question is how did it get here?" replied Sherlock. "There has been work in this room, plaster dust along the walls and on the floor show that, but no dust on the statue." He ran his finger across the angel's shoulder. "There are no drag marks on the floor, no evidence of wheels. I doubt it would fit through the windows," he said, walking over and looking at the casings, "but if it did, there's no evidence of machinery used to lift…" He stopped in mid-sentence. "John," he said quietly, "it's time we left."

Keeping an eye on the statue, Sherlock herded a confused John back out the door, closing it firmly behind them. He hurried down the stairs and through the front entrance, knowing John would be close behind. It wasn't until they were back out the gates that John spoke.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" he asked, trotting after him down the sidewalk.

"It's getting dark. There's no way to find clues in the dark with only that little torch of yours." said Sherlock.

John grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve, stopping him. "That's not it." he said. He looked at Sherlock curiously. "You're acting very odd, almost like you're spooked and that's just ridiculous, you don't get spooked. What aren't you saying?"

Sherlock hesitated, with a very unusual look on his face. Incredibly, he seemed to John to be almost confused. "It was the statue." he finally stated.

"The statue in the room? What about it?" prompted John.

"Not the one in the room, the one in the garden."

Again John prompted Sherlock, "What about the one in the garden?"

"When I looked out the window, I could see that part of the garden." said Sherlock. "John, the statue wasn't there anymore."


	3. Chapter 3

Note: A big Thank You to all who have reviewed or added this story to favorites and alerts. I'm struggling a bit, trying to keep this consistent with the canon of both shows, so we'll see how it goes!

Sherlock paced.

He'd refused to say anything more to John after his revelation outside Wester Drumlins. John had wanted to go back into the gardens, but Sherlock had simply walked swiftly down the street, his coat swirling behind him, and of course, John followed instead of going back, as Sherlock had known he would. John had attempted conversation, but Sherlock had fallen silent after giving the cabbie the address and the long, quiet, cab ride back to 221B Baker Street was tense. He continued his silence upon arrival at the flat, leaving John to pay for the cab and follow behind.

The flight from Wester Drumlins, and that was exactly what it had been, was purely instinctual. A fight-or-flight response from deep in his gut had told Sherlock to get out and he'd done so. Anyone might be disturbed by this reaction, but this was Sherlock Holmes. Disturbed didn't come close. Sherlock Holmes did not flee. He headed _toward_ danger, not away from it. He _solved_ mysteries, he did not run from them and he did not understand his own actions. So now he paced, brow furrowed, silent, annoyed, and thinking.

"_The angel statue in the room clearly wasn't the same statue as the one in the garden. Not only did it look different, but the cellar floor showed four objects had been down there, all statues based upon the irregular shape, the dimensions, and the depth of the drag marks, so there is more than one statue. Obvious. They're made of stone. Stone doesn't move itself. Ergo, the statue in the garden didn't move, it WAS moved. I saw it from the window in the room with graffiti…Bloody graffiti. 'Beware the weeping angel' indeed. Bloody John, jumping at shadows. That sort of thing puts anyone on edge. Of course having it disappear when we weren't looking would disturb anyone after that. It was a perfectly natural response to…." _Sherlock stopped and shook his head; irritated at losing his train of thought, then resumed his pacing._ "It was approximately 6 ½ minutes after the graffiti room before we entered the room with the second statue. Another 45 seconds before I looked out the window. So…7 ¼ minutes from the time the statue was there to the time it wasn't. Difficult to move a large statue in that amount of time, but not impossible with the proper equipment. Eliminate the impossible and what remains, however, improbable, must be true. So HOW was it moved? Where was the equipment? A good portion of lawn was visible from the upper window; there was nothing, no tracks, no machinery, no people. There was no noise or we would have heard it. And how did they do it so quickly? Someone didn't just happen along and take it by coincidence. Therefore, someone had to be watching us and moved the statue while we were indoors, but WHY? What is to be gained by creating a scenario that is seemingly inexplicable? To frighten people? To increase the ghost-story mystique? Of course! People are foolish, emotional, creatures. Make them afraid of a supernatural explanation and they quit looking for a logical, natural, human cause. That means…they quit looking for the abductors!" _

Sherlock halted his pacing as the doorbell sounded. "That'll be Lestrade with the files, John. Make yourself useful and let him in, won't you?" He ignored John's glare and muttered response, "Oh, speaking to me again are you?" as he headed over to the window, looking out into the now dark streets.

John and Lestrade came up the stairs, a file box each in their arms. "Where do you want these, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock waived vaguely at the couch, never changing his pose at the window. "So," said Lestrade, "did you learn anything at the house?"

Sherlock remained silent. After a moment, John replied, "Well, we learned it's big and spooky and abandoned in a hurry. But, we didn't get through it all."

"Why not?"

Sherlock had turned at Lestrade's question and John shot him a look. He cleared his throat and answered casually, "It got too late and the power's out. Impossible to find clues in the dark." Sherlock looked John in the eye approvingly, a flash of something like gratitude on his face, too brief for Lestrade to notice, and gave him an imperceptible nod.

"I'll see if I can get the lights on if you need me to," said Lestrade, "or will you be okay if you go back earlier in the day?"

John hesitated. "Ah. Well, I don't know if we'll be going…"

"We have to go back." Sherlock interrupted.

John looked at him, surprised. "We do?"

"Of course." Sherlock replied in his usual calm tone. "Daylight should be fine for the grounds, Lestrade, but there are places in the house where power could be helpful, so you see to that. Shall we say by tomorrow noon?" Sherlock turned back toward the windows, effectively dismissing the inspector.

John smiled his usual apology for Sherlock's manners. "Tea, Greg?"

"No, thank you John, I must be going." Lestrade replied with a nod. "Keep me advised if there's any progress." He spoke pointedly to Sherlock's back, knowing John, at least, was listening.

John returned to the flat after seeing Lestrade to the door to find Sherlock engrossed in the police reports, which were quickly spreading out over the floor and couch. "So," he said, "we're going back to the house tomorrow?"

Sherlock did not look up from his work, replying in a cool voice, "Of course we're going back. "

"It's just," he hesitated, "you seemed very keen to get out of there today." John's statement was met with silence. He tried again. "What about the statue, Sherlock?"

"The statue? Really John, we're obviously dealing with a group of individuals attempting to scare off anyone investigating the case. No one person could move that statue alone in that short amount of time. Just as obviously, they must have left evidence at the scene. A single person may be clever enough to leave no evidence, but multiple people are always sloppy. We have to discover how they did it. Once we know how they moved the statue, we'll be one step closer to knowing who moved it and, therefore, who wants us to stop investigating. I need more data to make any headway on this and the data is there." Sherlock began tacking photos and notes on the wall.

John stared at Sherlock, disbelief evident on his face and in his tone. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that you practically ran from that place because _a group of people moved a statue_?"

"_Ran_ is a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" Sherlock sniffed.

"No, Sherlock, I _don't_ think it's an exaggeration. You wouldn't leave for that reason; you'd go out and check for evidence right then. You'd chase after them. You'd confront them without a second thought to your own safety. But you wouldn't just leave. That's not you. Now tell me what that was all about today."

Sherlock set his jaw. "I felt we needed to leave, so we left." He fixed John with a glare, "Or are you the only one who's allowed to ever act on instinct? I'll be sure to remember that next time you get yourself abducted and wait until I'm completely certain of every detail before I act. Shall we see how that turns out?" The words fairly dripped with sarcasm. He turned back to the wall and files, angry with John for being too perceptive where he was concerned and even angrier with himself for his overreaction earlier in the day. Though he'd never admit it, having decided there was a rational explanation for the moving of the statue, he felt as though he'd fallen for what amounted to a prank and that would not do. No, that would not do at all.

"Look," John said, somewhat contrite, "I didn't say that to offend you. But you know as well as I do; there's something wrong with that place, Sherlock. You felt it too. You said so. So if you have any doubts about going back, or about that statue moving while we weren't looking, it's okay to admit it."

Sherlock froze for a moment, photo of the missing teens in hand. He took a breath and turned to John again, face unreadable as always. "I admit the place has an odd…atmosphere." he stated. "But that doesn't mean there isn't a logical explanation for everything. It's simply a matter of looking in the right places. I will find the explanation and I will solve this case." He gave John a patronizing look. "If you don't want to go back I fully understand. I'm sure we can find you something else to do."

Sherlock's implication that John was afraid had the desired effect. "And let you go back by yourself? You must be mad. I'll be ready when you are. But, this time I'm bringing my gun."

Sherlock turned back to the files, hiding a smile. Really, John was just _too_ predictable.


	4. Chapter 4

The cab pulled up in front of Wester Drumlins to find Lestrade waiting in front of the gate. "Is the power working?" asked Sherlock.

"Hello to you too Sherlock, John." Lestrade replied, smiling as John shook his head at his flatmate's usual rudeness. "No luck with the power for today, I'm afraid. It'll be tomorrow at the earliest."

"So, should we wait then?" asked John, glancing over at Sherlock, who was already walking toward the gates.

"No," Sherlock said shortly, "we'll start with the grounds and come back for the darker bits when Lestrade finally gets things sorted with the house."

The trio headed up the drive toward the house. Sherlock determinedly ignored the oppressive atmosphere of the place and sighed heavily at Lestrade's quiet echo of John's statement the previous day, "It certainly does _look_ like a haunted house, doesn't it?" He headed for the garden; toward the spot where the angel had been, then not been, the day before. As the reached the house, he paused. The angel stood back in its place.

"Well, this is … unexpected." murmured John, looking from Sherlock to the angel. "Could you have been mistaken?"

Sherlock didn't bother to respond, merely shaking his head and walking slowly toward the statue, eyes searching for evidence of the group that had played the trick the day before, while Lestrade looked on in confusion. "What's going on?" he asked.

While John gave Lestrade a carefully edited version of the events of the day before, the three searched the grounds, unfortunately, to no avail as there was no evidence whatsoever that the statue had ever been anywhere but where it now stood. Finally giving up, they paused for a time. "Sherlock, you must have been mistaken." John said. Sherlock ignored him, glaring at the statue as if it had committed some personal affront to him. After long minutes he turned, striding toward the house and mounting the stairs, ignoring John and Lestrade as they called after him. He entered the house, going straight to the window of the graffiti room. He could clearly see the angel in the garden.

"Stay here and watch the statue." he said, as John and Lestrade entered the room. He swept past them at the doorway, heading upstairs.

Lestrade and John looked at each other for a moment. "For pity's sake, don't let him wander off alone, John." said Lestrade, turning toward the window.

John followed Sherlock up the stairs to the room where the second statue was the day before. He joined the detective at the window. "It's right there, Sherlock." he said, looking down into the garden at the statue. "Like I said, you must have been mistaken."

"Really?" Sherlock responded dryly. "Then tell me John, what's missing from this room?"

At Sherlock's words, a shiver ran up John's spine. He turned, knowing what he would see…or rather _not _see. The second statue was no longer in the room. He looked at the floor, the undisturbed plaster dust and lack of drag or wheel marks. "Don't bother," said Sherlock, "you won't find anything."

They rejoined the inspector and filled him in on the newest development, being met with some skepticism, which was only to be expected. However, Lestrade knew neither Sherlock nor John was prone to flights of fancy and so accepted rather quickly that something odder than multiple kidnappings were going on at the old estate. The three made a search of the house as a group, John and Lestrade adamantly refusing to even acknowledge Sherlock's observation that they would make better time splitting up. They encountered two other statues during the search. As with the other, no evidence of how they were place could be found, but otherwise the search turned up nothing of note. Eventually, even Sherlock had to agree there was nothing more to be seen, at least until they had the ability to properly light up the rooms. Leaving, John and Lestrade discussed the various possibilities of moving the huge statutes, Sherlock shooting down every scenario.

"Who stands to gain the most from this place being abandoned?" he asked.

Lestrade was taken aback. "Gain from it? No one I can think of. The development company is only losing money by it standing vacant. The contractors aren't getting paid for even the bit they did since they abandoned their contract. The prior owners hadn't had anything to do with the place for years. They live in Surrey and inherited it from some distant relative. I don't see how anything is to be gained by its sitting here and falling apart."

"Besides," John picked up the conversation, "what on earth is to be gained by moving the statues around and _how_ is it being done? Isn't that the question?"

Sherlock shook his head, "You miss the entire point," he began. Seeing the looks on the others' faces he tried to repress a sigh and continued. "The moving statues frighten people. The disappearances frighten people. Frightening people means they don't work, the place doesn't get renovated, the hotel doesn't open. The estate sits abandoned. Someone wants this place to not be opened to the public. The question is why. There has to be a reason and when we find it, we find the people responsible."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: I apologize to everyone reading how long it's taking me to update this story. Life gets in the way. In case you haven't figured it out, this story takes place sometime after season 1 of Sherlock and in the middle of season 5 of Doctor Who, after "Flesh and Stone".

The next morning at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock poured over the case files, searching for the link that continued to elude him most of the night. John helped for a time, but eventually Sherlock's short temper drove him away from the files and to the kitchen, for tea and his laptop. While he hadn't again mentioned the graffiti, he continued to be curious about it. He spent some time on line, getting interesting results to searches about "The Doctor". The Doctor appeared to be an internet legend who appeared at dire moments throughout history. Some bloggers believed him to be a man from the future, a time traveler. Other's claimed he was an alien; either passively observing mankind or causing the historic tragedies for some, unknown dark purpose. While amusing reading, John was far too sensible to give any of it merit. He also tried searching for Sally Sparrow and found that a woman by that name had previously owned a book and DVD store in central London along with a partner named Nightingale, but it had changed hands and was now a coffee shop. He could not trace her current whereabouts on the internet and what she or this "Doctor" could have to do with the mystery at Wester Drumlins he could not imagine.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had abandoned the files and sat facing the wall of photos and notes, absently plucking his violin, while his mind worked on the problem before him. As much as he hated to admit it, Lestrade was right. He could see nothing to be gained by the property being abandoned. _"There must be something there…something someone does not want found. But it could be anything." _He considered, then rejected, that the some thief had used it as a hiding spot._ "There was adequate time between the sale of the estate and the beginning of construction to move anything hidden there. The disappearances have been happening for years. Perhaps something about the house itself. A hidden body? A secret that someone doesn't want found out?" _

"John," he called, springing out of his chair, "we need to speak with the contractors ourselves."

John looked up from his research, "I've learned some interesting things about The Doctor," he began.

"John there's something in that house. There has to be." Sherlock interrupted. "Now are you going to join me interviewing the contractors or not?"

Breitkopf Construction was not a large company, but popular with smaller businesses, doing all manner of remodeling and construction. The owner, Frank, met with them at his latest job site. "I can't imagine what I can tell you I haven't told the police." He lead John and Sherlock to a quite area of the site where they could talk privately.

"The police think we may be able to help; perhaps offer a different perspective." John said.

"Perspective?" Breitkopf scoffed. "One of the workers we lost was my nephew, Mr. Watson. I've looked at this from every perspective. He and the other's simply went in and didn't come out."

"What part of the house had they been in most recently?" Sherlock asked.

"That's hard to say. We had crews working on repairs first, electrical, plumbing, structural, plasterwork and such. Laborers were bringing in supplies and doing general cleanup."

"Did you happen to do anything with the angel statues?" Sherlock asked.

"You mean those hideous things in the cellar?" the contractor replied.

"Hideous?"

"Well, yeah. There were four of them, standing in a circle. From the back they looked like angels alright, wings and long gowns, but their faces were hideous, like monsters you know, with fangs and their hands were like claws."

"Wait a minute," John said. "The angels we saw were, well, angels, lovely things. What you could see of their faces were normal."

"I don't know what you saw," Frank responded, "but the ones we moved in the cellar were anything but lovely."

"You moved them? Where?"

"Just up against the wall. We were planning on putting supplies in the cellar and they were in the way."

"And did they stay there?"

"They were statues. Of course they stayed. What do you expect?"

John looked at Sherlock, who was already reaching for his phone and turning away. "I think that's all we need for now, Mr. Breitkopf. Thank you for your time." He and Sherlock left the job site, heading toward the street.

"Take my advice boys," the contractor called, "and stay out of that house. It's cursed. Pure and simple."

Sherlock didn't speak as he flagged down a cab at the street. John could see the wheels turning in his friend's mind and determined to keep his own thoughts to himself for the time being. Once settled into the car he turned to Sherlock. "Well, where to now?" he asked. They determined there were too many workmen to see together and that they would split up, Sherlock starting at the top of the list and John the bottom, meeting up again when they got to the middle.

Several hours later, John was nearing the bottom of the list but had heard nothing from Sherlock. The other contractors and workmen had been about as helpful as Frank Breitkopf, none had seen or noticed anything unusual until their coworkers went missing and all were convinced the house was either cursed or haunted and firmly refused to ever go back. John tried calling Sherlock without success. The phone went straight to voice mail and texts would not go through. Finally he called Lestrade and, although the detective inspector was in a meeting, discovered Sherlock had been to see him earlier in the afternoon, requesting blueprints of the house.

"_There's something in that house. There has to be."_ John could hear Sherlock's voice in his mind. Something in the house. Blueprints. Sherlock's insistence that the data to be had was at the house. All of these things added up to one disturbing conclusion for John. Sherlock had gone to Wester Drumlins. Alone.

John flagged down a cab and gave the address of the estate. During the ride, he continually tried Sherlock's phone to no avail. By now it was getting dark, but he hurried up the drive and into the house. There was no sign of Sherlock outside and he quietly mounted the stairs, his hand going to his gun, glad he'd had the foresight to take it with him even though his plans had been to simply interview witnesses.

"Sherlock," he called quietly. "Sherlock are you here?" John walked further into the house, peering through the gloom. Entering the graffiti room, he looked out the window to the angel on the lawn. Oddly, it looked closer to the window. _"A trick of the light."_ he thought. Still, he backed from the room, keeping the window in view. He continued to call quietly for Sherlock, checking room to room. Heading upstairs the darkness was more of a problem. He pulled out his phone, using its flashlight in one hand and holding his gun in the other. The house was silent except for the usual creeks and groans of an old structure. Suddenly, John heard a fluttering, like wings behind the door on his right. He quickly opened the door and in the beam of light saw an angel in one corner, hands over her face. _"Not the one from the garden. That's impossible."_ John thought. He looked around carefully, noting the open window and assuming the sound he heard came from there.

John went into the room, to the open window. He heard the fluttering again, behind him. He turned quickly, only to find himself face to face with a horrifying sight. The angel had moved between him and the door and had changed. Its hands no longer covered its face, which was no longer serene, but twisted, fangs showed between its parted lips, blank eyes staring right at him. "This can't be real." he said aloud. "It's a statue. Statues don't change. Statues don't move." For only a second, John froze, then gathering himself, he headed for the door, circling the statue and keeping his eyes on the angel. As he passed closest to it, he slowed, looking at the angel more closely. It was stone, he was sure of it. But he knew it was something else as well. Whatever it was would have to wait. He was getting out of that house, now.

Then, John blinked.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock took note of the lengthening shadows. Glancing at the clock he realized that several hours had passed and it was well into evening. Where was John? Having visited the plumbing contractor who was last on the list, he had quickly decided that the simple interviews could be handled by the good doctor, while he put his mind to more productive tasks. His first impulse was to go back to Wester Drumlins, but both John and Lestrade had been so adamantly against anyone going alone that he decided it was not worth the fuss they'd make about it later. Instead, he went to see if Lestrade had a set of blueprints for the house. He was annoyed, but not surprised to find they did not, given the age of the house. It had taken some time to track down the developer and get copies of the plans they had drawn up for the renovations. Unfortunately, the plans did not show any hidden rooms or other obvious hiding spots.

He had expected John to call before he worked his way through all the contractors, likely to berate him for leaving him to do all the interviews. He reached for his phone and then frowned in frustration. It was dead. Hadn't he told John he needed a new battery? Finding the charger and plugging the phone in, he found several missed calls from John and one frantic voicemail. _"Sherlock, where are you? If you've disappeared without a trace I'll bloody well kill you!"_

Suddenly, Lestrade burst through the door, then paused staring. "Sherlock?"

"Obviously."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Have you spoken with John?"

"No, my phone was dead. I was just about to return his call. I expected him home by now. What's wrong Lestrade?"

Lestrade was dialing John's number. Putting the phone to his ear he listened for a moment, then shook his head. "It doesn't connect. Sherlock, John called me earlier. I was in a meeting, but he left a message saying he hadn't heard from you for hours and couldn't reach you. The desk sergeant told him you'd been by looking for the blueprints. If he didn't speak with you or come by…"

"He thinks I went to the house." Sherlock stood, grabbed his coat and headed for the door, knowing Lestrade would follow.

Sherlock inquired about the power to the house only to find that because of the incomplete rewiring, the power could not be restored due to chance of fire. "Tell me you at least have a torch." he snapped at Lestrade.

"Better." said Lestrade. Pulling up to Wester Drumlins, Sherlock saw two police cars and four uniformed officers waiting with portable floodlights. "I called them to come here before I went to your flat. But I thought we'd be looking for you."

Lestrade assigned two officers to check the grounds. "Stay together!" he ordered. "No matter what you keep each other in sight and radio immediately if you find him." Sherlock, Lestrade and the other officers headed to the house.

Entering, Sherlock held up a hand, signaling for quiet. The house was silent as the grave. "John!" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade whispered. "What are you doing? Be quiet!"

"Of course silence is important," Sherlock said sarcastically, "because psychotic kidnappers won't notice four men with floodlights wandering about." He headed toward the stairs to the cellar.

Lestrade ordered the other officers to begin with the attic while he followed Sherlock to the cellar. "Stay together!" he warned, "We'll meet back here."

Lestrade and Sherlock found nothing in the cellar. Sherlock took the time to look closely at the walls and floors for anything indicating hidden passages or doors, to no avail. Moving back to the main floor they went room to room, checking behind every door and even in cabinets. Lestrade checked in with his officers by radio. They found no sign of John. At last they entered the graffiti room. As expected it was empty. Still, they searched it as carefully as the others, making sure there was no trace evidence to be found. Lestrade paused, shining his light out the window.

"Sherlock, is it just me or has that statue moved closer to the house?"

Sherlock joined him at the window. "No." he said quietly. "It is closer."

Lestrade turned away from the window and went over to the writing on the wall. "Have you given this any thought, Sherlock? Could it mean something? 'Sally Sparrow' was located back when Billy Shipton disappeared, but she had an alibi, the brother of a friend of hers said she'd been with him all day. It held up. At least, we couldn't disprove it. She said it must just be a prank. We could never prove any kind of connection."

"The paint is old, it's been under the wallpaper for decades Lestrade." said Sherlock, glancing over at Lestrade from his place at the window. "Long time to plan a prank…"

Sherlock turned back to the window and stepped back, eyes wide. "Lestrade!" he said quietly.

At his tone, Lestrade turned from the graffiti only to gasp at what he saw. The angel was now just outside the window, inches from the room they stood in. "That's not possible…" he began.

"Don't be a fool of course it's possible you and I both see it. The question is how, not if, it's happening." Sherlock backed away from the window toward Lestrade.

"But it's stone, Sherlock." Lestrade hissed. "We know it's stone we looked at them. We touched them. They aren't real."

"They aren't imaginary are they?" Sherlock hissed back, his eyes glued to the statue.

At that Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "But they aren't _alive_!"

Sherlock blinked.

….and jumped back, grabbing Lestrade and pulling him with him. The angel was now in the room and no longer weeping. Its stone face was exposed, blank eyes narrowed and glaring at the men, one hand was raised, fingers clawed, reaching out and only inches from where Sherlock had been standing.

"They only move when you aren't looking. Lestrade, I'm going to keep looking at it. Call your men, get them together at the front of the house. I'm going to back up; you look ahead. Remember, there are at least four of them."

Lestrade took Sherlock by the shoulder, guiding him toward the door while he looked ahead and trusting Sherlock not to close his eyes. Sherlock could hear him on the radio, warning them about the statues and telling them to meet at the front of the house. He heard the disbelief in the voices that responded. Finally, they left the room and without taking his eyes from the angel Sherlock reached for the door and quickly slammed it shut.

"I doubt a door will hold it Lestrade. Move."

As quickly as possible, looking everywhere at once, they headed for the front doors. At a sound, Sherlock whirled about, only to see the two officers coming from the upper floors of the house. "What is this about, Detective Inspector? We searched the house, no sign of Doctor Watson, sir." said one of the men.

"We need to leave, now."

"But what's this about the statues? We saw one upstairs. I'm pretty sure the thing is only a stone sir." The second officer smirked at his companion.

A fluttering sound caught Sherlock's attention. "Tell me officer, if it's only a stone, how did it get on the stairway?"

The men gaped, "But…"

"Spare us the 'it's not possible' and move!" Lestrade ordered.

As a group, one always facing the angel, they left the house. The other officers weren't there. Lestrade called for them on the radio. He was answered by the sound of gunfire.


	7. Chapter 7

The four ran toward the sound of gunfire and found one officer, holding his weapon pointed toward an angel, standing with its hand outstretched.

"Sir! It moved! One minute Morris was behind me…and the next…I heard this sound, I turned and it was here and Morris…he's gone sir…he's just gone! I shot it, but nothing happened. It's not real. But it was. It moved."

"Smith! You're babbling." Lestrade said. "We're leaving. Now. Keep an eye on that thing and back toward us."

"Leaving? But sir…Morris is gone."

"We're coming back tomorrow, with lights and men, lots of men. But we can't risk losing anyone else in the dark. Now move!"

In a group, one keeping an eye out in every direction, the five traveled down the drive until they stood at the street. Once outside the gates the three officers began speaking at once, either demanding answers or, in the case of Smith, demanding they return to look for their missing comrade. Lestrade's insistence that they not return until light did not sit well.

"What is going on?" Smith shouted, turning on Sherlock. "Sergeant Donovan warned me about you. You're always involved when the weird stuff happens. Where is Morris? He's got a wife, you know, and kids. You tell us where he is!"

"That's enough…" Lestrade began.

Sherlock cut him off. "Obviously, we're dealing with a very cunning criminal; one who preys on peoples' fear to throw them off the trail. Why he's taking people or what he's doing with them I don't know. But I'll find him."

"But, the statues…" began another officer.

"…are statues." Sherlock finished. "Probably remote control animatronics. It's a trick of some kind, obviously. You don't really think there are haunted statues? Evil stone creatures that kidnap people?" This last he said derisively, "Only a fool would believe such a thing."

"No! I…No, of…of course not." stated the officer. "Obviously it's some kind of trick." The other officers nodded in agreement.

"Then it's settled. We come back in the morning with more men and search the area. I'd suggest you not start any foolish ghost stories until then." Lestrade ordered the men back to work, or home if their shifts had ended. Watching them turn away, he rounded on Sherlock. "What have I just done, Sherlock? Do you actually believe those things are remote control?"

"Don't be stupid, Lestrade." snapped Sherlock. "What do you expect would happen if those men ran around telling tales of moving statues that steal people away in the haunted house? At best people will think they're mad. At worst, these grounds will be crawling with people, destroying any evidence or more likely simply disappearing themselves. We have to keep this quiet until I can figure it out."

Lestrade sighed heavily, leaning against his car. "I suppose you're right. But I still have a man missing. I have to report it. I have to investigate it. Oh God, I have to tell his wife." He looked at Sherlock bleakly. "What do I do about all that?"

"What you have to. Just make sure that you have plenty of people to search tomorrow, enough to keep the angels always in someone's sight."

"What are we dealing with Sherlock?" The reply filled Lestrade with dread.

"I have no idea."

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John stumbled and fell, landing painfully on his knees. He felt dizzy, shaky. His head pounded and he was covered in a cold sweat. He stayed kneeling, trying to control his rebellious stomach, which was strongly threatening to return his last meal. After a moment, he tried to lever himself to his feet, pushing himself off the muddy ground.

"_Wait. Mud?" _He looked down, realizing he now stood in a muddy alleyway. He looked about, seeing stone buildings on either side of him instead of the walls of the room he was in moments ago. He gathered himself together, fighting down the nausea, and on shaking legs, staggered out of the alley. He found himself standing on a cobblestone street, lined with quaint stone buildings, gas lamps, and _"Horses?"_ He shook his head, closed his eyes, looked again. Instead of cars, horse-drawn carriages traveled down the street. Women in long gowns and men in morning coats strolled down the walkways, stopping to glance in the shops.

"_This isn't possible. I've gone mad. This isn't possible in the slightest." _John swayed, feeling ill once again.

"You all right sir?"

John turned to see a constable in a Victorian uniform, looking at him curiously. He tried to speak, but swayed and nearly fell, leaning back against the closest building.

"Are you ill?" The constable looked concerned. "Do you need help?"

"Where…where am I?" John ground out.

"Where are you? You're in Portsmouth. Where do you think you are?

"I…I was in London. Just a second ago, I was… I was in a house in…in London."

"London? This is Portsmouth. Long way from London."

"What's the date?"

The constable was now looking at John suspiciously. "Have a bit too much to drink, have you?"

"I'm not drunk! I was in London!" The illness had left and now John was feeling as angry as he was confused.

The constable reached for John, "I think you better come with me."

As they walked down the street, John felt his anxiety growing. He'd been to Portsmouth, but nothing looked familiar. In fact, it didn't look like anything he'd ever seen outside a Dickens' movie. He was in trouble. He was lost. The one thing he knew for sure was that he wouldn't find help in a drunk cell. If he were here, maybe Sherlock was also and if that was the case he needed to find him. Waiting until he got to an intersection, John suddenly shoved the officer to the ground, turned and ran.

He pounded down the street, hearing the constable shouting behind him, but did not look back. He raced down an alley, slipping in the mud but keeping his feet, and came out on another, much busier, market street. He ducked into a corner shop and out a side door. There he stopped for a moment to listen for the constable and catch his breath. As he watched the street, however, he saw a disaster in the making. As a coach came around the corner suddenly the horse startled. In an instant the driver lost control and the coach came speeding down the street directly at a young man, who was just stepping off the walk, his attention on a newspaper in his hand. John reacted, rushed out and shoved the young man aside. He was not fast enough, however, the horse reared, and everything went dark.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: My apologies for the length of time it takes me to update. I started this story with an idea but its proving difficult to get it from my head and into print. I'll try to do better. Now that Sherlock is back on in the US maybe I'll be more inspired!

ooooooooo

Consciousness came slowly to John. He became aware first of pain; a throbbing ache in his head and that he was, once again, laying in mud, this time flat on his back. Then, sounds, voices, an argument. "He's a nutter sir, you can't be serious!" "I most certainly am Constable. This man just saved my life!"

Opening his eyes caused the throbbing in his head to become a screaming stab of pain. John couldn't hold back a groan and quickly gained the attention of the parties to the argument. "Easy there my good man," a quiet voice said. _Scottish_, his mind automatically filled in. A gentle hand was laid upon his aching head. "You took a nasty blow. Can you speak? What is your name?"

"John…John Watson." He sat up, head swimming; eyes squinted, to see the young man he'd pushed out of the way of the carriage. "What happened?"

The man smiled. "What happened is that you saved my life, nearly at the cost of your own. You caught a blow to the head from that horses hoof. I would have been run down, no doubt. I am in your debt and it is one I intend to repay."

"Sir, you can't just take this man, he's in my custody." John looked past the young man he'd saved, groaning again at the sight of the constable he'd shoved to the ground in his escape attempt.

"For what exactly, constable?"

"I already said, sir. He's a nutter or drunk or something. Thought he was in London and didn't know the date. Then he assaulted me, shoved me down and ran. This man is under arrest."

"Well if he was having some sort of mental incident it would seem he needs medical attention immediately and now that he's injured it is even more important. I suggest you let me take him to my office and treat him. Or perhaps I should just go with you to the station and speak with your sergeant? Sergeant Thatcher? Thatcher and I play football together for Portsmouth. I am quite sure he will see the good sense in my suggestion." The young man smiled.

The constable's eyes widened, "Oh! Well!" the constable hesitated, "There's no reason to trouble the sergeant I suppose. I mean, you'd know best."

"Thank you constable. Do hail me a hansom cab, while I see to this man." The young man turned his back to the constable, effectively dismissing him and squatting down beside John again. "Can you stand Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor."

"Yes, I am a doctor, but after the service you've done me, you must call me Arthur."

"No." John shook his head, immediately regretting it as the world spun. "I mean Doctor Watson. I'm a doctor."

"Really?" Eyebrows raised, the young man looked John over. Suddenly he was very aware of how his mud-covered casual slacks, shirt and coat must look to the man dressed in neatly tailored Victorian garb. However, to his credit, he didn't remark on John's appearance. "Well, then you must know how important it is not take head wounds lightly. You're coming with me to my office and I won't hear another word about it." he said kindly, and helped John to his feet.

Sometime later, John, head bandaged, bathed and wearing Arthur's dressing gown, sat uncomfortably with a cup of tea, trying to think of what to tell his new acquaintance. He was at a loss to explain his sudden appearance in the past, and in another town at that, but he could no longer deny that it was a fact. He had considered, and discarded, the idea that was in fact dead, killed by the monster masquerading as a statue. He was pretty sure Hell would not be as pleasant as Arthur's sitting room and in Heaven he wouldn't have a concussion from being kicked in the head by a horse. He also knew he wasn't dreaming. First, he seldom dreamed in color and second, his throbbing head eliminated any need to pinch himself. So, he could only conclude he had been in London one moment, then an alley in Portsmouth the next and apparently about a hundred or so years from his own time.

He had managed to hide his wallet, mobile and most importantly his pistol by wrapping them in his tee shirt, insisting it didn't need laundered. Arthur had taken his other clothing to his housekeeper to see about having them cleaned. Out of sheer desperation, he pulled out his mobile and checked for a signal, a wry smile on his face at the thought of what Sherlock would say of such stupidity, checking for a mobile signal when electricity wasn't even invented. Or had it been? Sherlock would know the exact date by now without asking and making himself look like a madman. Sherlock. There was another problem. If he had somehow been transported to Portsmouth in the past, then where was Sherlock? Could he also be here? Or perhaps the stone angels didn't send everyone to the same place and he'd never see his friend again? That thought wiped the smile from his face as he replaced his mobile in the bundle. No, that wouldn't do. He must assume Sherlock was there somewhere or he would have no hope at all.

"Now then Doctor Watson, how are you feeling?" Arthur asked, returning to the room.

"Please Arthur, call me John. Bit of a headache but I'll be fine. Do you know how long my clothes will be? I really do need to be on my way."

Looking taken aback, Arthur replied, "That's out of the question John. You've a serious concussion and I could never let you wander about in your state. Do you have a wife who could look after you tonight?"

"No, not married."

"Your housekeeper?" John smiled shaking his head no, hearing Mrs. Hudson's voice, _"Not your housekeeper, Dear." _

"Friends you're staying with then?"

"No. I'm, uh, new in town."

"Well then," Arthur continued, "I insist you stay with me."

"Arthur, I appreciate it, but I have a friend I need to find."

"In Portsmouth or London?" asked Arthur. At the look John gave him, he continued. "The constable told me you believed you were in London, and that you didn't know the date. Now, while we've been talking, you don't seem to be addled, but I do believe the constable was concerned for a reason. Can you explain this?"

John hesitated. "It was nothing, I assure you. I'm not mad or confused."

"No, I can tell you are not." Arthur was thoughtful. "But there is something, is there not? You say you are a physician and when we spoke about your injuries you proved to have medical knowledge, but you looked at some of the instruments in my office as though you you've never seen them in use. The clothing I gave Mrs. Ryan to clean though is more in the style of a tradesman than a doctor and yet they are oddly made. Mrs. Ryan couldn't identify the fabric of the shirt or the closure on your trousers. Even the buttons are of an odd material and there are labels in them that are most unusual. '_Machine wash. Tumble Dry. Non-chlorine bleach.' _Not to mention,_ 'Made in Taiwan'" _John cringed. How could he have not thought of that? "You look about yourself in amazement; as if you've never been in a city before this day. Now John," Arthur sat across from him, "you don't have to confide in me and I cannot make you stay here against your will, but I do enjoy solving a good puzzle and there is a mystery about you that I'm not apt to let lie."

John closed his eyes, shook his head and let out a sad chuckle. "Well of course you would love puzzles. When did I become a magnet for men who like to solve mysteries?" Making up his mind, he looked at Arthur and prayed he wasn't making a mistake. "If you promise not have me hauled off to the madhouse Arthur, I'll tell you a story."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I'm sad to say I still don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who.

Note: To all who are following this story, my sincere apologies for the length of time it has taken me to update. I'm very sorry. I'd like to pretend I've just been too busy, but truthfully, I just kind of lost my muse. I really thought I'd wrap this up quickly when I started it. I think if I ever write another story I'll finish it before I begin posting. But if you keep reading, I'll keep writing and I will finish this one day!

And now on to the story...

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Having left Lestrade at Wester-Drumlins, Sherlock simply walked, deep in thought.

"_I must revise my original hypothesis. This isn't kidnapping. The Angels were not moved to frighten people away or attract people to a ghost story. They move themselves. Although, in point of fact, I didn't see it 'move'. It only moved when I wasn't looking. It defies all logic though. We saw them. We touched them. They were statues! Statues that live? Is it a statue when you see it, but alive when you don't? Impossible!" _Sherlock shook his head in disgust. _"Of course it's possible! You have the evidence of your own senses. What more do you need? Now, the questions are, what are they and what did these things do with John?"_

Walking for hours through London, Sherlock finally returned to 221B Baker Street, still without answers. He had checked with contacts in his homeless network, only to find they had little information. Basically, they stayed away from the area around Wester-Drumlins, knowing that people disappeared from there. He let himself into the flat and settled in front of John's laptop, quickly deducing the password, "USE_UR_OWN", he had to smile a bit at John's idea of security. Calling up John's internet history he quickly reviewed the pages John had visited. While he had originally been intrigued by the graffiti in the house, he had disregarded it as irrelevant to the case. Now knowing that a woman named Sally Sparrow had indeed been living in London at the time of the last round of abductions, gathering more data on her and "The Doctor" became necessary. While John had found nothing on "Sally Sparrow", Sherlock quickly found she was now "Sally Nightingale", having married her business partner. Unfortunately, it also appeared they had moved to New Zealand over a year ago. John's research on "The Doctor" had been more in-depth, if urban legend and blogs by conspiracy theorists could be considered in-depth. No one knew his true name, origin or whereabouts. Stories about him went back in time for decades, even centuries. Sherlock would have normally scoffed at the idea. But given the fact that creatures of living stone were apparently real and stealing people away in London, he was inclined to at least read the accounts in detail and commit them to memory.

Daylight was dawning as Sherlock stopped his research and settled in front of the photos and files, slapping on a second nicotine patch.

A persistent ringing intruded upon his thoughts. "John. Phone." Sherlock said automatically. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Sherlock was on his feet. _"John's not going to answer." _ He chastised himself as he checked to caller ID.

"Lestade? Why are you calling so early."

"It's noon Sherlock. What have you been doing?"

"Thinking."

"Of course. Well think on this: They're gone, Sherlock. We've searched every inch of the house and grounds and there are no angels."

"What?"

"You heard me! They're gone. As in they're no longer at the house. There's no trace of them and if we hadn't seen them ourselves we'd never know they'd been there." Lestrade felt like shouting, but learned long ago that shouting at Sherlock was nothing but counter-productive. He forcibly held his temper. "Have you had any ideas?"

"I have many ideas, Lestrade, but as to this case there's nothing I care to share yet."

"You never care to share, Sherlock, it's one of you most annoying traits."

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. After a moment, Lestrade sighed. "Ok, so can you tell me what you found out from the contractors before John…" He stopped.

"Nothing you wouldn't expect. Big, spooky, house. People went missing. Contractors' quit. The end. Of course, I didn't know at the time I should be asking them about alien statues that spirit people away in the dark."

"Aliens?" Lestrade almost laughed. "Did you actually say 'alien statues'?"

Sherlock hadn't actually given voice to that thought before, but it had been there, niggling in the back of his mind ever since he'd read John's research on the Doctor. Most of the blogs had been ridiculous, conspiracy theorist, nonsense. But some had decent data included and if nothing else pointed to something "otherworldly" about him. Add that to the sheer impossibility the situation… He looked out the window, mind already jumping ahead to his next move. "You don't think living statues evolved on this planet, do you, Lestade?" he said, and hung up during the stunned silence that followed.

0000000000000000000000000000 

Arthur looked a bit pale by the time John finished his story. At first his attitude had been just as John feared; a trip to the asylum was not out of the question. However, the indisputable evidence of John's identification, money, pistol and cell phone overcame Arthur's quite reasonable disbelief. "I believe," he said at last, "we could do with something stronger than tea." With that he rose and opened a rather well stocked liquor cabinet, pouring both of them generous glasses. John was impressed that even in his shock, Arthur's hands were steady.

Settling back into his chair, he sipped his drink in silence. John fancied he could see the wheels turning in Arthur's mind, much like he could Sherlock. "_Sherlock. What happened to you? Are you here too somewhere?"_

Arthur cut off John's train of thought, "So," he said, "what shall we do with you now?"

A thrill of fear ran up John's spine and he choked a bit on his whisky.

Arthur immediately realized John's discomfort and was quick to reassure him. "No, no, my good man! I mean, how shall we ever get you home?" He chuckled at the look on John's face. "Thought I was going to turn you over to the authorities didn't you?"

"Well, I suppose it would be understandable if you did." John replied. "After all, I'm a bit of an oddity I suppose."

Arthur smiled, "Do all men from your time excel at understatement?"

John shook his head, "I must say, Arthur, you're taking this all very well."

"How should I take it, John? Should I panic and run screaming from the man from the future? I rather hope I show a bit more fortitude. No, John, I must believe you, there's nothing else for it. You say you've traveled here not of your own will but by some nefarious means that was used against you, making you a victim in all this. You've shown me no ill intentions. In fact, you've risked your life to save mine. The only honorable thing to do is to assist you in any way I can." Arthur leaned forward, looking at John intently, "Now, do you have any ideas?"

John's relief turned to despair. "I can't imagine." he said bleakly. This sort of thing doesn't happen. It's impossible. I can't be here, but I am. I don't have any idea how to get back or what to do. It's like something from the Twilight Zone."

Arthur frowned, "The what?" He shook his head, "Never mind. I expect we'll have a bit of that happening. You mustn't give up already."

John continued, "I keep wondering what happened to Sherlock. Did he meet up with the angels too? Is he here somewhere? He may be in the same predicament. I just wish I knew what to do. I'm out of my league here."

"Alright then, this friend of yours, Sherlock Holmes, from what you've said he's a clever fellow. What would he do John?"

"He'd go to the scene of the crime." John replied.

"Well then," Arthur nodded, "London it is."


End file.
